Don't Let the Ceiling Fall
by SpreadTheWord
Summary: Without work to occupy his time, Foreman is forced to deal the death of Lupe and, inevitably, himself. [Spoilers for Human Error]


Eric Foreman had lost his mind.

Three days of unemployment had driven him just about insane, and yet instead of the usual treatment of forced ignorance and faux bliss he'd chosen to undergo increased exposure. He'd canceled all previously scheduled job interviews under the pretence of a family emergency (because a personal one sounded _so_ cliché) and in place of redemption he'd chosen to scour the inside of his spotless fridge, polish his untarnished silver and sort his already meticulously organized bookshelves full of volumes he'd never exactly gotten around to reading but would some day,_ that day _when he had nothing better to do but sit around with a Scholastic classic and marvel at the wonder of literacy at its finest.

By reason of insanity, that day should probably be today.

It's not like he had anything better to do, but reading _those_ books (works by Tolstoy and Nietzsche and Poe) was an admission to what was being wasted, time unoccupied with self-improvement and thinning the skin that made it hard for him to feel. Instead, he scrubbed the leather of an expensive car he could barely afford and didn't really want.

(The word petty fit him like a glove.)

It's easy to keep himself busy, keep his schedule full as he hollowed from the inside out.

(The way he was going now there wouldn't much left for a word to fit on.)

By day four, he feels flat-out stupid, like Charlie Gordon after the surgery wore off and he went from the elite back to something deserving of strangers' pity. The only difference really is Charlie slipped back into oblivion while Foreman was forced into awareness. He'd always known of House's the innate ability to get under you skin and make you feel like ripping it off to get him out before he drove every train of thought off the tracks, but when did he develop the ability to do that to _him?_

It had always seemed below him. He was the equal doctor, the better man. He was good. He was happy.

He was full of shit.

Foreman gives up his trace resistance and trades in his dignity for the beat-up copy of The Sun Also Rises he nicked from the Hopkins's student library his freshman year. After two chapters, he begins to rip it apart page by page and runs it and his still stiffly bound edition of For Whom the Bells Toll through the garbage disposal because Hemmingway (not unlike House) just isn't worth the trouble.

Six days post-breaking point, he starts trashing his collection of crappy medical journals, too; the ones he doesn't really like but reads anyway because it gives him a decent chance at contradicting Chase and the diagnostic anomalies he pulls out of thin air like late-strung stars in an elliptical sky.

He wonders what Chase is doing right now and if he's as cool as he seems and how the hell a golden boy like him shrugs off a rejection he's surely never faced before. Foreman hates guys like him, icons of a Wonderbread society with fake tans and smiles that yachted and played goddamn polo on purebred ponies and no matter how much money Foreman earned or connections he made he would never be a part of.

A part of him considers calling Chase, seeing if he still remembers what day of the week it is without a job to remember it _for_ and if he'll continue his with Tuesday reminders (the ritual offering up of his heart for smashing to the goddess only he could see) over the phone from wherever it is he'll run to.

(Maybe without a temple to share his unwanted flame would flare out.)

He's half-way through dialing when he realized just how wrought with bitterness that (he?) is and instead calls Cameron to see how things are going back at PPTH where sanity doesn't seem so necessary only to find she's left as well. The thought of House deserted and desperate provides pleasure for only as long as it takes him to recognize Chase's voice in the background. He tells Cameron he's got someone on the other line and that they'll talk and again that he'll miss her and once the soft hum of dial tone takes her place he deletes her from his phonebook and leafs through his copy of Portrait of a Lady and hopes Chase will make her absolutely miserable.

(Such a mortal deserves not the goddess's hand.)

Day seven is spent reminiscing over Greek mythology. He thinks of House through The King Must Die and his work through The Iliad and his life through The Æneid and by the time he gets to The Odyssey he figures a road-trip wouldn't be so bad; a pilgrimage to his past and the pieces of himself he'd left behind he could pick up and (maybe) feel whole again.

He packs a bag with barely worn tee-shirts and jeans and fills the vacant space in his leather carry-on with books he doesn't really want to read.

He starts the next day before the sun, driving, circling aimlessly around his new life and the old, feeling strange without the certainty of who he is and what he'd become and where the hell his life was going just beyond the reach of his headlights. He'd give anything for House's speech of salt to be stripped from his wounds and cleaned with comfort, yet somehow he knows he can't go back, take it back and mute the mounting pain of an inexplicable failure. He was the good son, the doctor, the role model and yet his mind was having trouble accepting himself as anything but a conceited attention-seeker, just as addicted to the spotlight as House to Vicodin and for the first time, he has no idea how to deal with himself and his own improprieties. He's without a plan and no amount of vacuuming can pull the remains of his crumbling world from his carpet's roots.

At a pit stop diner he ignores the blue plate special and over a cup of bitter, black coffee skims The Inferno and wonders how Dante's hell had survived six-hundred years with only nine circles when somehow Foreman's self-pity had built a tenth in one solemn week.

He doesn't choose a destination. His cars starts driving on to Trenton and he's left with two option; go see mom, hug her, tell her he loves her and start up a conversation brilliant enough to put Maya Angelou to shame until she sundowns and spirals within her own mind in her usual gut-wrenching break-down or (behind curtain number two) veer off-course and go visit his brother for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

What a bullshit set of options.

He decides to stick with mom and drives for hours, drifting off-course just to get off course, following whim and tour buses and once the lady with beehive hair so high it actually stuck out of her sunroof. It probably would have been a bit easier to just _let go_ and go someplace uncharted and untainted if he wasn't so anal about getting lost.

(More truthfully, he's scared of losing himself someplace inconsequential enough to go unlabeled by the map and unknown by the general public. Like a chameleon, he'll take on its insignificance and disappear once again.)

Finally, he gives up, gives in, and gets back on the roads he knows. It takes him ten minutes to end up back in his old neighborhood, making up what it lacks in nostalgia with the scent of asepsis-bathed wounds and sweat-soaked dreams that never quite came true.

(The ones that did moved on long ago.)

He parks in front of his parents' place but can't bring himself to go in. There's his room, front right corner with the cracked-glass window. There's his brother's, mirrored to the left. Foreman sits in his Lexus taking in all that had remained untouched by time along with near-unbearable scent of spilled of leather cleaner.

He wonders what's changed beneath the surface, whether they've cleaned out his room for other use or if his mother still has the cheap daisy-print wallpaper in the kitchen or if the family Bible still has their favorite passages bookmarked. Have any been added? Removed? Was the sofa's leg still broken? Had Marcus's pictures been stripped from the walls, erased from the family's iconic identity? Had his been put in their place, photos that captured a façade of untainted success?

What the hell made him think he still belonged here?

Before he can stop himself, he's back in his car and driving again. Who was he kidding? He doesn't belong here, not anymore. He's the painted bird, unrecognizable as anything but an intruder, certain to be pecked to death by those he once flocked with.

(Even if only by himself and his pride.)

It's been years since Foreman's cried, but Jesus, how the fuck is he supposed to feel? _What _is he supposed to feel? He's so goddamn sick of running on empty, destined to crash.

(He fucking hates what he can't control.)

He drives; drives until he's out of tears and choking down thick breaths, calculating out the chances of him actually getting to see his brother. It was, after all, the great plan B. There were only four or five visiting days a month, a half dozen hours a day. He'd have to be on his brother's visitation list, which frankly wasn't likely. Going in there would be a waste of his time, really.

Then again, even if he just went in for five minutes and was told he'd have to come back tomorrow or next week or whenever, they'd still tell his brother he'd shown up; a dramatic gesture with no consequence and next to no effort on his part, a win-win situation really.

(Possibly because loss wasn't really a possibility with nothing left to lose.)

It takes ninety minutes to get from Trenton to Leesburg and another twenty for Foreman to convince himself to actually get out of the car. He goes through the check-in and the sign-in in motions, keeping the surprise from his face as he discovers, that yes, it is in fact a visiting day and he's just in time and golly, he's not just _on _his brother's list of acceptable visitors, he's in the first spot.

(Foreman smothers the guilt of not coming sooner with the rather nonsensical idea that his brother wouldn't have wanted him here until now.)

The guard nods sagely at him as he takes his seat in the stale room he's led left to wait for one of the six visitation tables to clear. Across from him, a skinny white woman with tattoos and track-marks bounces a vacant-eyed toddler on her knee, checking the men's wristwatch hanging large on her own every few minutes.

12:13.

12:15.

12:18.

Foreman wrings his hands in his lap and wonders (for what feels like the millionth time) what the hell he's doing here. He doesn't belong and yet his status of imposter (of painted bird) isn't being challenged, like without a white coat to prove his worth he was just another black man who'd lost one to the system, close to being lost to it himself, another fucking_i__nvisible __m__an_.

He makes a mental note to throw the Ralph Ellison novel out the window as soon as he gets out of this place and on the highway. 

12:21.

Foreman had (sort-of) been in jail once. After the break-in of the Felker's house he'd been shuffled off to a minimum-security juvenile hall to celebrate his sixteenth birthday.

A guidance councilor from a neighboring school system had come a month later to offer him a place just beyond the territory of the gang he carried his piece for, a new beginning and a way out. If he hadn't taken it, if he had chosen to stick to what he knew and all he feared, it's likely Marcus wouldn't be the only one taking visitors from across the metal table.

It had always bothered him how much of his success was due to the work of others and his obedience, of debts he couldn't quite pay back.

12:23.

A middle-aged Black woman in a thick navy-blue sweater shuffles out of the visitation room looking tired of more than just the day; her trials worn like a painted mask from the tip of each lip to deep within the creases of her skin. Foreman considers asking who she's got on the other side; a husband, a brother, a son; maybe even a grandbaby that grew up to fast.

He doesn't, of course; doesn't put himself on her level or admit to anything more than being there admits already.

(Though the paint hangs like lead, he refuses to shake such a heavy demise from his wings and soar to a new wake.)

12:28.

A sleepy voice on the intercom calls in the tattooed junkie (Callisco, Vanessa) and her now-sleeping child in. She shift her baby from her right hip to her left and rises with a grace that seems so out of place.

(Like anything around here really belonged.)

12:34.

Now alone, sitting in the gray box-like room among the once-white folding chairs and remnants of hesitations long lost is unnerving to Foreman. He counts the passing seconds silently, slow Miss-iss-ipp-ee seconds rolling over his tongue trapped tight in his closed mouth.

A man in a borrowed three-piece suit (cut down to a two-piece by prison security) shoots past Foreman so suddenly that for just a moment his heart seems to lose its rhythm and flutters beatlessly, a faux tachycardia to catch the breath entering his lungs and hold it like an Olympic metal won from his unease.

Foreman swallows hard and begins to match symptoms and diagnosis, again wringing his hands, waiting to be called, trying, failing to kill both nerves and time.

Finally, the grainy hum of almost sub-audible snow fills the stiff airwaves for just a moment before a stiff-sounding voice calls simply for the end of all self-preservation.

Foreman, Eric.

(Wings red, breast green, tail painted blue, coming up fast is your coming home.)

Foreman's knees don't feel weak exactly, just fuzzy and he's feeling sort of drunk stumbling surreally through someone else's life.

He walks down a caged hallway with chipping paint to a second security guard that waves him through without looking up from a celebrity magazine that looks a bit too familiar (perhaps one House had already been through?) to the stagnant-aired visitation room. He finds his way to the only unoccupied table, to the unoccupied chair parallel to cells of unoccupied men.

Standing beside the table he allows his fingers to trace the top of the black chair bolted to the floor on the visitors' side.

Once upon a time, he had been unoccupied too.

Once upon a time, it had taken a guidance councilor to that made far less than he did now to pull him from the delusion that he was doing all right.

_You're not a bad kid, Eric. You're not stupid. I don't want to see you rot here. I've read some your papers and honestly, your grades don't reflect how bright you are. We could get you out._

_Listen lady, you've got it all wrong. If you're looking for some next great hope, I think you're in the wrong place._

_I could say the same for you, Eric._

Marcus is escorted in by a pair of officers, both a full head shorter than him. He's wearing a navy jumpsuit, some beat-up sneakers tied with twine and a hollow electrical wire and an unreadable expression composed of wear and wisdom and just a hint of something else.

Tired.

He looked tired.

_And what happens when I'm out? What happens if I just get thrown back in here again?_

_It's up to you. It's your life. If you want to waste it in jail go right ahead._

It's startling to see him now after so long, so many years. His shoulders are broader than Foreman remembers and his chest flattens now in a hollow sort of way, but still, this is the body that fell to the ground beside Foreman to escape bullets only sometimes intended for them, the same heart the fluttered as their nine-year-old neighbor bled out in their arms and the same hands that dealt smack into the hands of curious teenagers and addicts and once, just once, a cop.

Marcus shuffles over to the table, almost in slow-motion. His handcuffs click softly as they're unlocked, revealing rough patches of callus on his wrists where the metal had rubbed them raw so many times before.

gawkily, the two brothers meet in the middle, one going for a handshake while the other leans in for a hug, the effect being a strangely-posed middle ground. Marcus gives him a small like-hell-we're-awkward nod and takes his seat. Foreman does the same.

For a moment across from each other, neither quite sure what to say.

"So," Marcus begins slowly.

"So?" Foreman jumps, his voice a little sharper than he'd intended.

Marcus blinks, nodding again. "So...how's life on the outside?"

For a moment, Foreman considers telling him about House and his cruel insanity and Chase and Cameron and their current romance-type-thing (destined to fail) and what it's like to work a sixteen hour shift watching a child, children die from things medicine, things he can't fix.

Then again, it's pretty damn hard to complain about life to a guy in who fall asleep with the knowledge that if he stepped on the wrong guy's feet that day he'll likely wake up with a shiv in his gut.

"Good," he croaks, his voice cracking slightly, "Boring."

Marcus he nods shallowly, his stare drifting down.

"How's life on the inside?"

Marcus's eyes rise sharply from the table to meet his, glare accusing.

"What are you doing here?"

Foreman sits, unmoving, taken aback.

"Seeing you." Again, his tone's (unintentionally) confrontational.

Marcus shifts in his seat, eyes glued to his brother's folded hands. "Why now?"

_Because it's been too long._

_Because you're my brother._

_Because I'm not like him._

_Because-_

"I killed someone."

Marcus's eyes drag back down to Foreman's folded hands.

Without a response, Foreman continues. "I messed up...with medicine. I gave her the wrong treatment and she died. It's just kind of messed me up, you know? Like I can't do anything normally anymore. I can't think. I-"

"What was her name?" Marcus asks suddenly, cutting him off.

Foreman can feel the confusion seeping into expression. What?

"You're talking about her like she's just another mistake," he continues softly, picking at a thread on his cuff. "Like it only matter because of how it's effecting you. It's not. She's not. She's a person, somebody who will never come home for Christmas again, who'll never celebrate another birthday, who will be missed and morned by a lot of people. She's not just a check against you. She's somebody's kid."

Foreman sat for a moment, stunned. It wasn't the kind of thing you expected to hear from a thirty-one-year-old convicted drug-dealer. But hell, if this was anybody else he wouldn't hesitate to tell them to get out of his face, to shut it, point out that she had no family and her life wasn't worth much anyway, that it was wasted.

But this wasn't anybody else. This was Marcus and the possibility that the same could be said for him was all too real.

And then, just like that, it hit him. It was real, all of it; the loss, the failure, the need, the want, the tainted brotherhood.

"Lupe," he says softly, her name, her death suddenly real too, but just as an ugly mark on the story of his life but one that will never smile, breathe, live again. "Her name was Lupe."

Marcus nods slowly, leaning in a few inches and reaching out to lay a loosely closed fist beside Foreman's, their knuckles touching slightly, a lay of flowers on the grave of a stranger, an understanding of pain, the caged bird consoling the painted.

He understood.

He was the first and only person who understood.

They weren't the same, just the same breed and while different hearts beat beneath their thickened skin, for just a moment they beat as one, a single beat in unison followed by a single moment of silence, morning, understanding.

He understood.


End file.
